


The Served Warm Job

by fencesit



Category: Leverage
Genre: Gunshot Wounds, Holding Hands, Hurt/Comfort, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2019-11-18 21:46:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18126890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fencesit/pseuds/fencesit
Summary: Things go wrong with a client.





	The Served Warm Job

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zilentdreamer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zilentdreamer/gifts).



“Take your jacket off,” Eliot demands. “Right now.” His heart rabbits in his chest, his breathing jutters. 

“Uh, it’s got a waterproof coating, I think?” Hardison argues, even as he complies, hands shaking — thank god it’s a zippered jacket because he probably wouldn’t be able to undo buttons — and shucks the ugly yellow thing off as quick as he can. 

“Better’n nothing.” Eliot has to sit down, suddenly, landing ungracefully on the floor. 

“You know there’s a reason I didn’t go to medical school like my nana wanted, right, Eliot?” Hardison asks. He fumbles with his stupid Star Trek jacket, and looks over his shoulder at Parker. 

“This is FBI Special Agent Hagen,” Parker is saying into the phone. “I need back-up and a bus at the following location...” 

Hardison finally presses the jacket to Eliot’s leg delicately. 

“Press harder if you don’t want me to die,” Eliot grunts. 

Hardison presses harder, leans his body weight against Eliot’s leg. “It’s because I’m squeamish, Eliot!” he goes on, panic making his voice rise. “Squea-mish! That means you gotta keep all your everything on the _inside_ around me!” 

Jaw tight, fists clenching, Eliot snipes back, “You’re not the only one having a bad time, Hardison,” with all the annoyance he can muster just for the distraction. 

“Do you know how expensive this jacket is, Eliot? Do you?” 

“I dunno, what, like twenty dollars on one of your little nerd sites?” 

Hardison gives a squeaky gasp — like a mortally offended Southern belle — and says, “Six hundred dollars, Eliot! _Six. Hundred_. It’s a custom fit!” 

“It’s not my fault you wasted money on a tacky jacket,” Eliot hisses. 

“Tacky? _Tacky?_ ” 

A police cruiser screams by the building, sirens blaring. A second one follows close behind. 

Hardison switches gears — probably realizes for the first time what Parker was on the phone for, since Eliot doubts he was paying attention to Parker’s conversation with the 911 operator — and looks up at Parker to say, “Uh, the money. Parker, the money.” 

Right. The money they’d stolen less than eight hours ago. The money that’s spread out all over the floor, some of it damp at the edges with blood. Eliot had chucked the bag at the client when he’d pulled the gun and aimed at Hardison, which had at least kept anyone from dying and Hardison, specifically, from being shot. 

Hardison would be very, very bad at being shot. So bad at it he would definitely have died, given the way the client was aiming the gun. Eliot, meanwhile, is very _good_ at being shot, and almost definitely probably won’t die, no matter what he’s snapped at Hardison to motivate him to give better first aid. 

There’s probably not much chance of convincing these two of it, though 

“I didn’t forget about the money, Hardison,” Parker says, a little sharp. She digs a hand into her own jacket — it’s leather and normal and looks _great_ on her — and pulls out two FBI badges. “Eliot’s our CI, client is the perp.” She throws Hardison his FBI badge, but Eliot has to catch it because Hardison’s hands are kind of busy. 

A second police car comes towards the building with its sirens blaring, but this one pulls into the parking lot. An ambulance follows close behind. When the PD get into the building, Parker takes charge, ordering them around to collect evidence and clear the building. The EMTs come in soon after, and rush over with a wheeled cot. 

“Agent Thomas,” one of the paramedics says to him as they lower the cot closer to the ground so it will be easier to get him onto it. “We didn’t know it was an officer down, we heard it was the CI—” 

“Uh, slow your roll,” Hardison says. “ _I’m_ Special Agent Thomas. This is my CI, Willy the Snitch.” 

That has _got_ to be one of Hardison’s idiotic, ill-considered references. Eliot is gonna kill him as soon as this gunshot wound is taken care of. 

The EMT takes a moment to look faintly embarrassed about assuming Eliot was the agent just because he’s wearing a suit today before getting to work on Eliot’s leg, allowing Hardison to take his jacket off of Eliot’s leg, although he doesn’t go far. He looks kind of lost. 

“Man, don’t _call me that_ ,” Eliot hisses. “I’ve told you a million times!” 

The angry tone seems to snap Hardison back to himself. “ _Man_ ,” Hardison mocks, “don’t get angry just ‘cause I’m tellin’ it like it is.” 

The continue to argue, back and forth, around hurried work the EMTs are doing on Eliot’s leg. Eliot accuses Hardision of press-ganging him into turning state’s evidence; Hardison accuses him of “secretly profiting off of that mess down on the docks last year” and swears he’ll prove it. The familiar, meaningless argument soothes Eliot’s frayed nerves, just like the sound of Parker ordering people back and forth across the room in the background, including making extra sure that everyone knows that none of the blood on the scene can be collected as evidence “to preserve the integrity of our criminal informant!” which will save her and Hardison the trouble of disappearing the evidence and electronic records later. 

When Eliot is being loaded into the ambulance Hardison hesitates until Eliot says, “What, you’re just gonna leave me out to dry? No protection?” 

“How about a please,” Hardison grumbles, even as he obediently climbs into the ambulance and shuffles around to sit where he can hold Eliot’s hand for a moment. The EMTs are both at the front of the vehicle for a moment, giving them a few moments of privacy. 

“I got better things to do than sit around in a hospital,” Hardison adds. “Got a raid this afternoon. Got plans to order Thai. Was gonna make you watch the new season of Mystery Science Theater 3000. How come you always ruin our date plans?” 

His thumb sweeps over Eliot’s knuckles, leaving a streak of Eliot’s blood. And if Eliot’s heart jumps — that’s just the drugs kicking in, that’s just the bloodloss, that’s just the sudden realization of how close he came to seeing Hardison die in front of him. 

“We gotta finish _Parts Unknown_ first,” Eliot protests. Then the EMT is back and the ambulance doors have closed and they’re pulling out onto the road. The swaying of the van should probably keep Eliot awake, but blood loss is a real bitch. 

“I’ll bring a laptop to the hospital,” Parker says over the comms. She’s a real problem-solver. 

“Not staying in the hospital,” Eliot mumbles, fading fast. “Not secure. Private doctor.” 

The last thing he hears is Hardison quipping, “Yeah, you always want special treatment,” and then things go fuzzy. Eliot drifts, or falls asleep, and is only vaguely aware that he’s moved from the ambulance to the hospital. Hardison stays by his side until they put him out for good for the surgery. 

* * *

“Uh, Parker, you good?” Hardison asks, later, in the waiting room. 

She’s been quiet. Pacing the room. That’s never a good sign. 

“Parker?” Hardison prods again, a little more urgently. 

She’s quiet for a few more seconds, and then she bursts out with, “He shot Eliot!” 

“Yeah, babe, I was there.” 

“He was the client!” She crosses her arms, turns sharply, and leans against the wall. “We got him money and everything and now Eliot is—” 

She doesn’t finish her sentence, only looks suddenly stricken instead of dangerous. Hardison takes advantage of the gap in her defenses by swooping in to hug her now that she’s stopped looking prickly and stab-happy for a hot second. 

“Now Eliot is going to be _the worst patient ever_ ,” Hardison says, because the surgery isn’t over yet but talking like Eliot might not make it... well, Nana didn’t raise a quitter. “Even worse than you.” 

Parker’s arms come up under the loose cage of Hardison’s arm. She squeezes him so tightly he huffs a wheezy breath into her hair, but he doesn’t protest. He just rubs her back, slow and careful. 

“He has to pay,” Parker says into his shoulder, quiet and fierce and sure. 

“Uh... Eliot? What for?” 

Parker scoffs at him.  
  
“Right, right, the client. Well, I got a couple ideas. You bring that laptop?” 

* * *

Eliot wakes up at home to medical equipment and the quiet tapping of Hardison’s keyboard. The room is lit only by the lights from Hardison’s computer set up — which is more than enough to see the details of the room, because Hardison has moved his entire four-screen rig into the bedroom. Text and images scroll across the screen. 

“Naw, not that building,” Hardison says. “Yeah, babe, I know, but the air pollution would be terrible. We’re only committing _responsible_ arson, okay? Okay.” 

More click-clacks, a longer pause. “The ugly brown one? I don’t know. I don’t know! I’m looking it up, okay? If you wanted me to know all about the buildings already, you should have let me — okay, yes, we’re definitely burning this one down, yeah. The owner and — yeah, slept with his wife. Again. They _both_ got arrested. Check your phone for mugshots. And, get this: it’s a matches factory.” 

Hardison glances over towards Eliot, then does a double-take, like he hadn’t expected Eliot to be looking back. He immediately hops up, but not to fuss over Eliot, thank god. He just slides an earbud into Eliot’s ear, grinning down at him, and then settles back at the computer. Seems like whatever he and Parker are doing is time-sensitive. Had they taken a job without him? 

Over the comm, Parker is cackling about burning a matches factory down: “Can I burn it down _with_ matches?” she’s asking. “Do I have to use the lighter?” 

“What game are you two even running?” Eliot croaks into the comm, running through every con he knows that involves just two people. And arson. “O’Leary’s Lantern Bluff?” 

“Is that the one with the cow?” Hardison asks. 

"What? Why the hell would you need a cow? No, man, it's like, you get some gamblers together—” 

“Eliot!” Parker squeals, probably too loudly for someone who’s supposed to be covertly burning a building down. “We’re getting _revenge._ ” 

Hardison adds, “I’m callin’ this one the Nate Ford Special.” 

Having worked with Nate just as long as these two, Eliot doesn’t really need anymore information than that. He lets himself drift, catching only brief snatches of Hardison and Parker’s discussion, and slips back to sleep at some point. When he wakes up, Parker is climbing carefully into bed on his left side, laying down to rest her head over his heart. Hardison joins them, sitting up against the headboard on Eliot’s right, tapping away on one of his seemingly dozens of tablets. 

Eliot’s hands find their hands all on their own, no concious input from Eliot. 

“You have to get better soon,” Parker commands him. “You can’t miss the gloat. It’s traditional.” 

“Whatever, Parker,” Eliot grumbles, but he squeezes her hand. 

On Eliot’s other side, Hardison wiggles down to stretch out on the bed, his head against Eliot’s shoulder. “Ah, I know what’ll make you feel better,” Hardison says. He taps at his tablet a few time and one of the screens set up across the room flickers on and starts to play Anthony Bourdain’s _No Reservations_. “There. Date night. You owe me a new jacket, by the way. Somebody bled all over mine. The hospital threw it out.” 

“Just steal one from Eliot’s closet,” Parker suggests, which explains where all of Eliot’s jackets have gotten to. 

“I’m not buying you another hideous Star Wars jacket, man, you gotta wear grown-up clothing,” Eliot says. He knows everything about what he just said will wind Hardison up, but he can’t think of any better way to spend the evening. 


End file.
